seawasp | FENRIR: Chapter 6 (Reply)

Stephanie was planning to go home...

Chapter 6: Fame Has its Rewards

Stephanie turned the corner and braked suddenly. "What the heck is going on?"

The quiet little street, with its rows of similar, two to three story apartments and houses, was quiet no more. Ahead of her, the streetside parking was full up – at least in one case, by someone who'd parked in front of a hydrant. There were multiple people standing… right in front of my house?

Belatedly, she remembered her own thoughts before the conference, and scanned the road more carefully. Sure enough, a couple of the vans had familiar logos – the local Channel 10 News, FOX, CNN. Jesus. I… I'd known it might get to be a pain, but this fast?

She was exhausted from the prior few days and the flight; all she wanted was to get home, take a nice long shower, and go to bed, but how was she going to get past that mob?

Someone rapped on her window.

She jumped in her seat, nearly popping the clutch. Shit, one of them's recognized me!

But instead, to her surprise it was Joel, her landlord, grinning at her with sympathy in his dark eyes. She rolled down the window.

"Looks like the circus is already in town, Steph," he said, running his hand through the thinning brown hair.

"Sure does," she said with a sigh. "But I've got to get in there. I'm due back at work tomorrow – assuming I don't get shipped back to Washington."

He chuckled. "Yeah, you've got yourself a tiger by the tail, and no sense in letting go now that you've got him running. But tell you what." He reached out, dropped a set of keys into her hand. "Turn yourself around and go to 457 East Sandalwood. I've got a nice little apartment there you can use – get yourself cleaned up, get a rest. If these news-vultures keep circling, well, I'll just get your stuff moved over there, a bit at a time so's they don't catch on."

She stared at him. "Joel, I… that's really sweet of you, but I can't –"

"You're my tenant, right?"

"Well… yes, of course I am, but –"

"No buts. You're paying me for a place to live, and it's not your fault that you can't get into it. Seems to me that makes it my responsibility to make sure you find a place." He grinned. "Not like I don't have a dozen or three places to offer, just around this town."

Oddly, she believed him. Not about the places – of course she believed that, Joel owned a lot of real estate, and not all of it in this state or maybe even the country. She believed him when he said he really felt responsible for making sure she had a safe place to stay. "All right. Joel, I can't thank you enough."

"Oh, don't go thanking me too much. I'm not that different from all those clowns. The idea I'm going to be the only person who knows where Stephanie Bronson, discoverer of the first aliens, is, while CNN and company squat in front of my lawn? Ha, that's something to treasure right there!"

He glanced down at her purse. "Let me guess: you never turned your phone back on after you got down?"

"No, I was in a rush to get home."

"Heh. Don't turn it back on until you get settled; I'll bet they've found your number by now."

"You can't be…" She paused. Her number was on her business cards and usually attached to her emails. Of course they could find it. "Crap."

"Sorry, Steph, but them's the breaks; you get shoved in front of the world's eye, it'll keep tracking you. Now get moving, before some of 'em decide to find out what you're doing stopped at the corner."

"Right. Thanks, Joel. I don't know how to –"

"Just go, and have yourself a quiet night. I'll bet it'll be one of the last you have."

As she drove away, she was afraid Joel was right. People like the President had whole divisions of people assigned to keeping casual questioners away. No one was going to corner her, or the Joint Chiefs, that easily. So who were the newsbite hunters going to come? After the newest face on the block.

And I can't really avoid them all for long anyway. The fact was that they wanted the news spread, the right news, and if they didn't get real answers, history showed that the people started making their own, usually paranoid, guesses.

457 East Sandalwood turned out to be an entire house – a very nice little house tucked away in the suburbs, already furnished, power on, water on, and when she checked, WiFi already on, with the password stuck on a Post-It note on the fridge. A vacation rental home? Air BNB? It was the only immediate explanation that came to her; rich or not, she doubted even Joel could have arranged all that in the few hours between the time he realized the problem and Stephanie's arrival.

First time I've been sleeping over at someone else's house in years, and it's because I'm avoiding people.

That was a pretty pathetic truth, she had to admit. Other than the professional and office friendships that came with pursuing a competitive doctorate, she'd had precious little personal contact lately. It wasn't that she didn't have any interest, but most of the guys she knew were either crazy-busy themselves, or taken – or were way older than her and in some kind of position of authority that made any more personal interaction very suspect.

Stephanie threw together a quick mac-and-cheese from stuff already in the fridge and cabinets. Looking at her cell phone, she debated calling her parents, but decided against it. That's for later – Mom and Dad will want to hear everything and ask a thousand questions, and much as I love them, I'm questioned out.

That was the one downside to having parents who were genuinely interested in your career; you weren't ever having a short conversation about your work. But all the rest is upside. Her mother, a chemistry professor for the last twenty-five years, and her father, a high-school science teacher for even longer, had showered her with every book she'd ever wanted, worked to get her through college, and even overcome their generation's computer aversion to become part of her online support.

And she knew they'd both understand what it meant to be in the spotlight like she was. So instead of worrying about them, she went to the bathroom, which was also stocked reasonably well, including individual-use bottles and packets of shampoo and toothpaste that gave strong credence to the rental unit theory.

It was in the shower, her immediate concerns gone and the day behind her, that it really hit her, and Steph found herself standing immobile beneath the showerhead.

I just changed the world. I stood up in front of every news network there is, and told the world that we are not alone. Told them that aliens are literally on their way and they'll be here, not in years or decades, but months.

She'd known that was going to happen, but she hadn't known it, not the way it suddenly just exploded in understanding within her. Jesus. I… of course they're chasing after me. The President put me up there. I'm the authority, even though I don't even know half of what I ought to.

Shaken by the acceptance of her not-entirely-thought-through celebrity, Stephanie got out of the shower, dried off, and dressed for bed in a white T-shirt and drawstring lounging pants from her small suitcase. Then she took a deep breath and turned on her phone.

The screen immediately turned into a scrolling fountain of notifications.

"Ugh." She glanced at the bed, which looked very inviting at the moment, but decided she should at least sort through what she had so far.

Most of the messages were questions or requests for interviews – some laughable, some interesting, a couple absolutely gobsmacking; in the latter category was a personal invite to call the producers of the most popular morning show in America for an immediate on-camera special spot.

Another category were congratulations, questions, and general messages of support from her own colleagues. That at least was comforting.

One message caught her eye: "Please Open and Respond Immediately," from the Director himself.

That took priority, as far as she was concerned, and opened the message.

"Based on your unique work, the prior known progress in your basic research, and specific requests and recommendations," it began, "it is the signal pleasure of the University to award you the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in Infrared Astronomy and Astrophysics."

She reread that incredible sentence again, then forced herself to go on.

"The University recognizes the irregularity of these circumstances, and a traditional awarding of the degree will be performed as circumstances permit, but it is viewed both by the University and others that for professional and political purposes it is advantageous to you and others in the profession that you be accorded the degree immediately. Please reply to this message with your acceptance."

I've been texted my doctorate?

It wasn't hard to guess where the decision had been made; the President herself had made her opinion on the matter clear. And it was true that Steph was very near to the point where she'd have made her thesis defense and, presumably, won her doctorate.

It was still farcical, to have received her doctorate the same way she might have been sent a funny cat video.

Still… they're dead right. Being "Doctor Bronson" carried a weight that "Ms. Bronson" wouldn't, and right now? She needed all the weight she could throw around.

Taking a deep breath, she texted, "Accepted with great thanks."

Minutes later, as she was getting ready to lie down, the conversation pinged.

"Congratulations, Doctor Stephanie Bronson."

And appended was a tiny image… of a doctoral certificate.

I suppose that's ONE issue dealt with.